There is a wind that is thought buried beneath the Quartzen hills whose grass meets with sands. By worried minds that could not be made up, and their adjoining hands. Books were burned, voices became whispers, and comfort was said to come to those who little knew. But as they looked up to the stars and wondered who they were..they turned again to you.
Sumoch..your wings are winter, and the numbing your chains. Your breaths are recollections, lost memories and older times. You are not a weaver for a future but a servant of the people's past. The lake's surface cracks like ice, our steps halted in your embrace. We can fool ourselves, but we cannot fool you. Even when we believe there is little more to be known, you know we shall never stop searching. Our humanity is no mere puddle..it is something far more deep.